H-E-Double Hockey Sticks is Other Peoples' Parents
by Las-Botas
Summary: Emma Swan is living a comfortable life, trying to provide the best for herself and her son, Henry. But the father of one of the players on the girls' field hockey team she's been roped into coaching, is about to throw her for a loop.
1. Chapter 1

Emma squinted across the vast playing field of St. Pius X Catholic School before lowering her sunglasses, whoops and yells from various teams practicing echoing across it. How the _hell_ did she get talked in to this again? she mused, as all the little 8, 9, and 10 year old girls lined up in their black pleated practice skirts. It was only the second field hockey practice, and Emma still felt like she was completely winging it. Really, she hadn't played the damn sport since high school. But after she'd enrolled Henry into St. Pius' 6th grade class over the summer, she got several thinly veiled hints that it was _heavily encouraged_ for all parents to join some faction of the school's extracurricular activities. Emma honestly shuddered at the thought of being stuck around a PTA meeting table, the other mothers staring at her with their pursed lips and perfect manicures, or wrangling several classes of hyper children to stay together as she paraded them through some zoo or museum field trip. But physical activity…this was something she knew, could at least attempt to teach, and she proposed to the administration to let her take over the abandoned coach post for the third through fifth grade girls. And while she felt like a complete novice, the girls seemed to be enjoying themselves so far. Though she'd had to spend most of the first practice discouraging them from admiring the way their skirts flounced behind them as they ran about, they looked to be ready to finally get down to business.

"Line up, ladies!", Emma hollered, balancing her roster clipboard.

The girls ran up in front of her, hockey sticks in hand. Emma grinned. They looked so deadly serious about the whole operation.

"Anyone want to show me the correct stance we learned last week?" she asked, and the majority of them squatted down in an imitation of the posture she'd demonstrated before.

From across the field, she saw the home ec teacher, Ruby, walking towards her. Ruby had been her friend years before Emma had ever considered enrolling Henry in private school. But when she'd been about to enroll him in the nearest public middle school, all his 5th grade teachers, and even the secretary at the middle school when she went to sign him up, had asked if she'd considered Henry's _future_.

"What?" she'd responded, confused. "Of course I—"

"What I _mean_, Ms. Swan," the secretary had said imperiously," is that a child with your son's grades and abilities can only benefit from going to a more…prestigious institution. It's certainly not too soon to think about college."

Well, that had stopped Emma dead in her tracks. For someone who'd just tried to make it through school to be done with it by 18, the thought of having actual options for her kid this early hadn't crossed her mind before then. When she'd mentioned it to Ruby later, the other woman had been all sympathy.

"Can't blame you…I mean, you were trying to finish up your education being shuttled between how many families and how many schools?"

"Ruby, I appreciate it, but can we not talk about this right now?" Or ever, Emma thought. Revealing any of her foster home upbringing was on a strictly need to know basis, but at this stage in their relationship, Ruby knew most of it and hence, when to back off.

"_Anyways_," Ruby had drawled dramatically, flinging an arm around Emma's shoulder. "I see what you're doing. You invited me over to butter me up."

Emma's eyes went wide. "What? No! I hadn't even—"

Ruby had nudged her then. "Relax, weirdo. I'm teasing. Sorry to say, I'm guessing the home ec teacher doesn't have a lot of pull in the private school hierarchy. But mention me on the application, and when they ask me, I'll put in a good word for you and the munchkin."

Despite Ruby's downplaying, Emma was sure it had been her two cents that had clinched Henry's acceptance. And despite the judgy looks Emma received during her visits to the campus, Henry really seemed to be thriving in the two months since he'd started. Plus, Emma knew the judgmental stares were no different from anywhere else Henry had attended. She was used to being _that_ mother in the class—youngest of the bunch, single, irregular day job. The only title added to her here was, as she imagined it in their minds, "heathen non-Catholic".

Emma was jostled out of her remembrances then, as Ruby passed her with a pat on the back and sat down behind her on a bench then, watching the girls listen raptly to Emma's stick grip advice. Once they'd got that down, and been paired off to do sit-ups, Emma sidled over to her.

"I can't believe you wrangled me into an 'assistant coach' position," Ruby grumbled, examining her long, flaming red nails. "I've never so much as handled a ball. Well…" and a wicked grin stole over her face," none that didn't fit into the palm of my hand."

Emma rolled her eyes, biting her lip against a smile. "I hope you're talking about ping-pong. There're children present."

Ruby snorted. "You should hear the foul mouths on the kids in my class. I'm sure it's generation-wide. They only _look_ angelic."

She looked on the verge of defending her stance further, but her mouth froze half-open, staring at a point over Emma's shoulder.

"Emma. Turn. Around," she hissed as soon as she regained the use of her reflexes.

Emma, brow furrowed, started to turn, and stopped halfway. Not 20 feet away from her at this point, walking _towards_ her, was one of the most—if not _the_ most—gorgeous man she'd ever seen. Straight black hair tousled this way and that, like he'd just gotten out of bed (_or just had sex_, Emma mused before pushing the thought from her head), dark stubble covering his sharp jaw, lean figure, and, as he got closer, piercing blue eyes. He was also towing, or being led, rather, by a little girl with the same hair hue, albeit hers fell in wild curls to her shoulders. Emma swallowed nervously as they came to a stop in front of her.

"Ms. Swan?" he asked. _Oh god, he's British, too_, Emma's inner monologue continued.

"That's me!" she quipped, wanting to kick herself for sounding like such a bubbly cheerleader.

"Well now," he began in that delicious accent, "I hope it's not too late, but Gwendolyn here snuck a peek at the first field hockey practice last week, and has been begging me to see if she can be a late sign-up to the team. I'm Mr. Jones, by the way. Killian Jones." He stuck his hand out to shake hers, and Emma returned his firm grip. No wedding ring. _Hmmm_.

"I certainly don't see—" Emma began.

"_Excuuuuse_ me," the little girl—Gwendolyn—Emma reminded herself, piped up, scowling up at her father. "I _do not_ beg. I asked you, politely, if you could talk to Coach Swan for me."

Emma could see Killian (_Mr. Jones, Emma_) trying not to laugh at his daughter, as he ran a hand through his hair. "I apologize, darling. You simply asked me politely, in the most beseeching of ways, if I could convince Coach Swan to allow you to sign up for field hockey."

"No convincing necessary," Emma cut in quickly, squatting down to Gwendolyn's level. "You haven't missed much. How 'bout you join in on the rest of the practice, and I'll give you a quick catch-up on last week after it's over?"

The girl beamed at her, eyes just as bright a blue as Killian's. "I'd like that." She held out her hand to Emma much the way her father just had. "And call me Gwen."

"Can do," Emma said seriously, shaking her hand.

After introducing Gwen to the rest of the girls and getting them all going on some push pass skills, Emma relented and let them have a scrimmage between themselves for the rest of the practice hour. She hadn't failed to notice Killian Jones had remained an onlooker on the sidelines. Nor had Ruby, the traitor, who after introducing herself had made a big show about not having her lesson plan for the following day ready, and oh, she ought to go home straightaway to get all that figured out. Total bullshit, Emma knew, especially when Ruby had raised her eyebrows at her and given a wink as she left.

"Toodles, Emma!" she yelled as she made for the parking lot, fluttering her long nails in a dainty goodbye wave. Emma narrowed her eyes towards her retreating back. Oh, her friend would pay later. But now—

"Need help packing up, love?" Killian asked as the girls started to run over and dump their sticks in a pile by the bench.

"Oh, ah, I've got this. It's fine."

"Nonsense. You mentioned catching Gwen up. Why don't I bag these for you while you do that?" Then he flashed a blinding smile at her. Emma clenched her thighs involuntarily. _Keep it together, Swan._

"If you insist," she responded once she was sure her voice wouldn't shake. "Shouldn't take more than a few minutes. I have to collect my son from the library anyways."

"Ah. A son?"

"Yes. Sixth grade." Emma couldn't help grinning with pride as she continued. "He's been recruited as a 'big buddy' to younger grade children who need math help. Has to stay a bit later than he'd like, but I think each side benefits."

"Indeed," Killian commented. "But," he mused, sticking his tongue slightly out the corner of his mouth, "would it be much trouble to _Mr._ Swan to pick up the lad on days he may need to go home earlier?"

Emma stared at him. _Mr. Swa—?_ Was this helpful, devastatingly attractive bastard _flirting_ with her?

"I—ah—there isn't a Mr. Swan," she mumbled. "Just me—me and Henry. My son. Henry's my son." _Real smooth, Emma._

He made an interesting little '_hmm_' noise in his throat, but looked serious now. "My apologies, love. I seem to be doing quite a bit of that today." He scratched nervously at his ear. At this point, Gwen had ambled over.

"Can we talk strategies, or are you going to yak my coach's ear off for another hour?" she inquired of Killian, indignant little hands on hips. Killian made a mock bow towards her. "She's all yours, my budding MVP."

* * *

"I like her," Gwen blurted out once she and Killian were well into Boston's rush hour traffic. "You should ask her out."

Killian turned, startled. "Who, princess?"

"Coach Swan. And I know you like her, too. I can tell."

Killian gave her a sidelong glance. "You are entirely more observant than an eight year old should, or needs, to be."

She folded her arms and sniffed. "Whatever. Plus, if you start dating, her son can come over and help me with my math. Win-win."

Killian stared at her. Sometimes he wondered where else this creature of his could have come from.

"And how do you propose I broach the subject, darling?"

Gwen let her head sink all the way back into the seat, exaggeratedly exasperated. "Just do it, Dad."


	2. Chapter 2

There was really nothing to be nervous about. Nothing at all.

At least, that's what Emma kept telling herself as she walked across the school field, dragging the duffel of field hockey sticks and practice balls.

He only came last week to plead his kid's case, there was really no reason for parents to attend practices, though there were usually at least 2 or 3 other moms set up in their lawn chairs a few yards away, eyeing the whole production like a hawk.

And yet, there he is.

Sitting on _her_ bench, a slow grin spreading across his face as he caught sight of her. Gwen was there with him, but jumped up to join the flurry of girls when she caught sight of Emma heading over. Emma frowned at him and flipped her sunglasses down, just as Ruby came up to her.

"Emma! I'm out of commission today as assistant coach, I'm afraid."

Emma felt the panic rising in her chest. "What? Why?!"

Ruby thrust her right hand right in front of Emma's face. "I broke it," she declared, wiggling the ring finger, and Emma really had to squint to see the corner chip on the dragon lady nail.

"You're fine, let's—"

"It's alright!" Ruby said cheerily. "Mr. Jones over here has already graciously offered to sub in for practice." And when Emma looked over, he was actually trotting around their playing area, spacing out the kid-sized orange cones Ruby had brought over.

Emma stepped a little closer, lowered her voice. "What the _hell_ are you playing at, Lucas?"

Ruby's eyes go wide, the picture of faux-innocence. "I haven't the faintest idea what you mean." She started backing up, smile slowly taking over her face, and before Emma could advance on her, yelled out a "See ya soon!", before she turned and ran at breakneck speed for the parking lot.

"Need a hand, love?", came a voice, right in her ear.

Emma jumped, dropping the stick bag. As the girls descended on it, she turned, scowling.

"Mr. Jones, it's entirely—"

"It's Killian, love. Please."

"Mr.—Kil—_Jones_," she stuttered while he just beamed at her. "It's appreciated, but entirely unnecessary for you to stick around for the entire practice."

His bottom lip protrudes slightly—was he _pouting_ at her?—and gestured down the field. "_They're_ sticking around," he said, referencing the two mothers already set up in their chairs, sending baleful glances Emma and Killian's way.

Emma let out a small groan then. "Not to provide good company, I assure you," then wanted to kick herself as soon as the words were out of her mouth, because she knew what was coming now.

"Well then, _Swan_, I assure you I can do better than that," he said in a clearly end-of-discussion tone, and bent over to fish the practice balls out of the bottom of the duffel. _No, I will not look at his ass. However tight it may be._

After he'd tossed them out to the girls, he sat back on his heels. "Now what, Swan?"

Emma unclipped St. Pius' field hockey rules and regulations from the back of her clipboard, and shoved it into his chest. "Read this. And, uh, just back me up when I need it."

He gave her a gallant bow, arms spread. "If the lady insists."

After that, Emma occupied the girls with learning a few new maneuvers: pushing and trapping through the cones in pairs, and afterwards going over the jab tackling skills from the previous week. Since this was their last practice before their first real game that Saturday, Emma was pretty grateful to have an excuse for running them (and herself) ragged, and not have to speak to Killian Jones any more than needed.

But eventually, when she had them formed into small groups to practice evading each other, Emma had to admit there wasn't much left for her to do before the end of the session. Reluctantly, she went to join Jones on the bench.

"Everything under control, Swan?"

"Perfectly," she answered stiffly, staring straight ahead at the action.

"So…what do you do when you aren't wrangling tireless small children on the hockey field?"

Great. The conversation she inevitably had with parents at every school, whereupon afterwards they'd drift away with a mumbled "How interesting…", and that would be the last of their extracurricular interactions.

"I hunt down bail skippers and haul their asses back to jail."

"Hmmm. Interesting."

She turned to face him. "You don't need to give me that, Jones. Yeah, I'm a slight, 29 year old woman who tackles and ambushes criminals. I don't need yet another person's judgment over that. I kinda fell into that work, and if it ain't broke, don't fix it. I do what I'm good at, no apologies."

Killian had a slight smirk turning up one corner of his mouth, though he squinted at her like he was affronted by this sudden tirade.

"You're a bit quick to assume, Swan. And you know what they say about when you assume…"

"…Makes an ass out of 'u' and 'me'. You know, what the hell does that even mean? Shouldn't it be just the—the assumer who's the ass?" She wiggled on the uncomfortable bench, embarrassed. "And I guess I just called myself an ass. Saved you the trouble, at least."

He laughed then, a wonderfully deep, rich sound coming from the bottom of his diaphragm. "Relax, Swan. Can _I_ admit something?"

She supposed she owed him that much. "Sure."

He leaned over into her personal space, and there wasn't much she could do about that since she was already nearly sitting on the edge of the bench.

"I find the thought of you tracking down the scum of the city and bringing them to justice quite—" he leaned in even more, if possible "—_hot_." And he was definitely too close, because she felt his warm breath right on her cheek, a minty aroma hitting her nose.

A little ginger-haired tornado chooses that moment to come tumbling right into the bench running after a rogue ball, nearly sending the whole thing—and them—sprawling. Killian gripped her arm protectively as they both fought to maintain their balance, and Emma bolted up, grateful for the distraction, but also missing his closeness at the same time. _Isn't that a bit odd, Emma? You barely know the man._

"Sorry!" the moment-ruiner cried.

Emma scrubbed her hand over her face. "It's alright, Felicia." She looked around at the rest of the group. "Everyone ready to call it quits for the day?"

After the chorus of "yesssss", she calls them into a quick huddle.

"First game day on Saturday, ladies. Remember the drills, they'll help you out the most. Practice at least once before then, when you get the time. And what do you need to bring if you want to play?"

"Shinguards!" they all yelled deafeningly.

"Right," she agreed, starting to turn away to begin the equipment clean-up.

"Coach Swan?" There was a tug on her sleeve, and Emma looked down to see several of the girls waiting at her elbow. "We've got something to ask."

Emma turned back to them, curious. "OK?"

"You're new, so we figured you might not know," one of the fifth grade girls, Lizzie, was saying. "But the coaches here come to the game days in uniform, too. Not all the time, but at least the first game."

Ugh. School spirit. Emma had never been its greatest champion. But if she was involved in this aspect of things, she didn't really see a choice. Plus, an army of little girls were staring hopefully at her.

"Of course," she said. "Anything to support the best team out there."

* * *

Gwen was waiting a few feet away, arms crossed, a thunderous expression on her face as Killian approached after helping with clean-up.

"What's wrong, lass?"

"What did you _do_? What did you _say_?"

"To…? Oh, Swa—Coach Swan? We said a lot of things."

"She looked mad."

"Oh? I suppose at one point she got a bit...feisty. We resolved it, though. And besides," he said in a sterner tone,"weren't you supposed to be practicing? Don't start poking your adorable little nose in where it doesn't belong."

She swatted at his hand when he attempted to boop said nose, growling,"Did you cock it up?"

"Oy, Gwendolyn! Language!"

She only looked coolly back at him. "Uncle Liam says that all the time."

"Aye, and when you're as old as he and own your own successful fishing tour company, you too may curse like a sailor. Until then,"—they had reached the car, and he opened the door for Gwendolyn to climb in—"you'll speak like a proper young lady. And stop eavesdropping."

Gwen stared across the parking lot as Killian walked around to his side of the car. Coach Swan had her trunk open, putting the hockey sticks inside while a young, gangly boy helped her. It could only be her son, Henry, the tutor. _Hmm_. Gwen tapped her foot thoughtfully. Her dad had everything someone like Coach Swan could like, but he was taking this whole thing painfully slow for Gwen's liking. He just needed a boost to his confidence. She settled back, pleased now that an idea was taking shape.

* * *

Emma went to the uniform supplier that she took Henry to once he was accepted into St. Pius. On the acceptance of her coaching gig, someone in administration had given her an official school shirt, a pale blue polo with the school's ensign embroidered in navy on the left breast pocket. But she certainly didn't have anything like the navy and green plaid field hockey skirts that were the official uniform for game days. She figured she'd find one here, and search through Henry's collection of old soccer socks to find some that relatively matched the girls' green kneesocks.

She's successful, even if the old battleaxe who ran the joint gives her a strange look, ("This is the largest we have, dear, these are made for _children_") but Emma doesn't care. The waist actually fits her like a glove, and the length hits right above the knee, which should be plenty conservative. The material's a little stiff, and has that strange warehouse smell to it, so she throws it in the laundry once she gets home. Maybe she's feeling some school spirit after all. A little, tiny bit.

* * *

"Henry! Where's my new skirt?"

Henry poked his head around the corner into Emma's room. "Which skirt?"

"The uniform one! For the game today!" She was hopping around, her shirt and 1 sock on, and that was about it.

"Oh, that one." he rolled his eyes, pre-teen style. "I put it in with the other stuff to go in the dryer, so it's—"

"You _dried_ it? Henry, I told you not to, that thing barely fit as it was!" Emma came barreling into the living room, pawing through the clean clothes basket. She found it and pulled it out, running back to her room.

She's pleasantly surprised when she slips it on; the waist doesn't feel any different than the first fit. She starts to run her palms down the front—and stops abruptly. Because she has no choice...the material's run out shockingly soon. Emma looked down. Good god, she was essentially wearing a miniskirt. _A Catholic schoolgirl miniskirt_.

She tried to steel herself against the anxiety coming on. Maybe it's not as bad as it seems. She walked out to the hallway where the full length mirror was mounted, to better assess the situation.

"Whoa!" Henry cried when he saw her. "Is that the same one from the uniform store?"

"_Yes_," she whimpered, and of course just then there's a knock at the door. That would be Ruby and Granny, coming to carpool with them. "Henry, go let the ladies in, " she croaked.

"Hot mama!" Ruby yells when she comes through the door. "Didn't think you had it in you, Emma."

"It shrunk!" Emma shrieked, feeling almost hysterical at this point.

"Mom, we're going to be late, "said Henry. "Granny, did you make the orange slices?"

"Out in the cooler, young man. Here, Emma," Granny grabs Henry's gray school sweater off the couch arm. "I think it's the best than can be done on short notice."

Emma tied it hurriedly around her waist as they rushed out the door.

* * *

A shadow falls over her, and Emma looked up to a vision of sin in a tight heather gray T-shirt and black leather jacket.

"My my, Swan, Halloween's still a few days away. I wasn't really expecting the risqué costumes outside of the BU campus, either. Not that I'm complaining."

At this point, after the initial shock, the horrified stares of her players' parents, as well as the opposing team's parents, Emma just feels done with the whole thing.

"Sit down and shut up, Jones."

After that, they don't interact much, with Emma running up and down the field shouting out helpful tips towards the girls. Killian seems fine to stay out of her way; she's sure she's exuding a not-very-friendly aura.

By halftime, though, Emma's feet are killing her. She'd taken off the soccer socks (she looked _Lolita_ enough without them), and her sneakers had rubbed blisters into her heels. While the girls were gorging themselves on juice boxes and Granny's orange slices, Emma stumbled to the open spot on the bench, right next to Killian.

"Alright there, Swan?"

"Never better," she said through gritted teeth. "Just some bad luck."

"I know the feeling, love, " he said, reaching up to pull her from her half-sitting position flush onto the seat.

A pleasant tingle rose up from the spot where their fingertips were loosely interlaced. She didn't even feel the need to yank out of his grip straightaway, letting their hands become even more entangled as he guided her down. And then she looked down.

Emma didn't know how it had escaped her attention before—_perhaps too engrossed in his beautiful face, Swan?_—but it was certainly plain as day now. Her jaw dropped. Killian's left hand was a map of scars. Deeper gouges were red and shiny (there was a particularly nasty-looking one between the first and second knuckle), while the more shallow ones had turned to spidery white lines.

She felt like she'd been staring for hours, though it was probably more like 15 seconds. She glanced up into Killian's eyes, a bit unsettled to notice he'd been studying her reaction.

He was the one who yanked his hand away. "Pardon, love," he said gruffly, shoving his scarred hand in his jacket pocket,"it can be a shock the first time someone notices."

"It's not—"

"Emma!" Ruby called,"The girls are going back in now."

She rose reluctantly. "Killian—"

"I think your team needs you, Swan," he said in a monotone, looking down at his feet.

Emma stood for a moment more, looking down at him, but clearly the subject was closed. She sighed and strode over to the huddle.


	3. Chapter 3

Gwen watched the whole exchange, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

"Gahhh," she grumbled to herself, "he's cocking the whole thing up!"

She idled around the field, trying to at least give the impression of effort, but all the while really trying to come up with how she could best phrase her argument to her, so far unsuspecting, co-conspirator.

In the aftermath of celebration (St. Pius won over St. Agnes, 3 to 1), Gwen slunk away from the team and into the crowd of parent and friend spectators.

"Ahoy! You're Henry, right?"

Henry spun around at the sudden voice by his elbow, the juice box he'd been nursing flying out of his hand. A younger girl, obviously one of his mom's players, was staring up at him, one hand in a fist against her plaid hip, the other holding her stick straight out to the side, end up, looking like some defiant little Highlander.

"Geez, kid! What's with creeping up on me like that?!"

She shrugged. "Sorry," she said, not sounding sorry at all. "I need your help."

"O…kay?" he said, as the girl grabbed his arm, trying to drag him a little further from the large group.

"So…my dad hears from Coach that you're pretty good in math. And I'm not. And…he'd like you to help me."

"Well, go the library after school, kid. Easy."

She squirmed. "Er, but…I have practice, and so he, he wanted to ask about, maybe, finding another time I could…" she trailed off for a second, before just blurting: "He'd like to call and arrange a time I could get some extra help."

_Something_ was up, Henry could tell, and he wasn't giving up until he got the straight story. He looked over to the last few parents milling around, seeing one guy sitting, looking a bit awkward, who wasn't part of the circle asking his mom questions. He looked just like this kid. Henry also somewhat recalled his mom talking to him for awhile during the game, but hadn't thought anything of it.

"So _why_ doesn't he just ask right now? He started to walk. "How 'bout I just go and—"

"_No_!" the girl yelped. Henry stopped, waiting. "He's—er—shy. In person."

He crossed his arms, staring her down. Sheesh, she was bad at this. He didn't have his mom's uncanny ability to ferret out lies, but he didn't need it to tell that this one was a whopper.

"Nuh-uh. Try again."

She was looking a bit red in the face at this point, and she aggressively pushed back some stray black frizzies that had escaped her ponytail. "Alright," she huffed, "here's the deal: my dad likes your mom. I think she likes him, too. But they're not _doing_ anything about it! But if I can get her phone number—"

Oh, no way. Henry is _not _going to have any part in this, and consequently, Emma's wrath. "Sorry, kid—"

"It's _Gwen_!"

"…Gwen. Sorry, but they're adults. If they don't want to talk to each other, or whatever, it's none of my business." He squinted at her. "Or yours." He resumed walking back towards where everyone was gathered. Gwen sprinted in front of him, blocking his path.

"Listen, mate. Do you know the last time my dad liked a girl? _Never_. At least, not since the Wicked Witch."

Henry let out a laugh at that. "The Wicked Witch?"

She rolled her eyes. "My mom. I dunno. I don't remember her, but she made him sad, so that's her name now." Her lip gave the barest quiver. "I just want him to be happy."

For all her fierceness, Henry could see Gwen's eyes start to glisten. _Crap_. He _really _didn't want to have to explain a crying little girl to his mom, her dad, and the few remaining spectators.

He sighed. Honestly, this girl was starting to make him feel a bit sheepish that he'd never thought about Emma's life outside of their little routine, the way she was thinking about her dad's. They seemed to have a good thing going. _Was_ his mom happy, with just him, her few friends, her job? Would she still be in a few years? Emma had gone on dates, though not for the past several years, that he could remember. He vaguely recalled questioning her romantic life when he was younger, asking as she was getting ready to go out when he'd meet whoever it was she was going to see. And she'd always said he'd meet them "if they're a good fit for us." But inevitably after one, at the most two dates, he never heard about them again.

"Look, ki—Gwen. I'll make you a deal. I'll try and find out if she really likes him. OK? And if _I _think so…I'll give you her phone number on Monday. After school. In the library."

She bounced up on the balls of her feet, tears miraculously evaporated. "Yes! OK!" She gave one final hop straight up in the air before turning and running back towards the sidelines, calling over her shoulder, "Don't forget!"

* * *

Henry wasn't really concerned about his sleuthing methods. For being a master debunker, his mom was pretty terrible at the art of lying herself. The best way to see if Gwen's assumptions were correct was to just ask, point-blank.

They were finally all packed up and headed home—Emma driving, with Granny in shotgun, and Henry with Ruby in the back.

"_Sooo_," Ruby gave him a gentle pinch on the shoulder, "did you have fun seeing your mom being a big bad coach today?"

"It was alright, I guess."

"He's not impressed by anything at this age," Emma quipped.

"Actually," Henry said, voice a little louder, "You seemed distracted."

Emma's hand slipped ever so slightly on the wheel as she made the right turn. "Excuse me?"

"I mean," he continued, "you seemed to be thinking of _some_thing else."

By now, Ruby and even Granny had turned to look at him questioningly. Emma twisted in her seat when they came to a stop sign. "Henry Swan, what on _earth_ are you inferring?"

"Mother," he said in a very fake, formal falsetto, "do you have a _crush_?"

The best way Henry could have described her expression was "deer-in-the-headlights". Headlights of a massive big-rig, careening down the highway straight at a tiny, defenseless fawn.

"_What_? N-no!" she managed. _Bingo_. "And—and I'm a grown woman, crushes are for teenagers—"

Ruby was tittering away. "Kids are _very_ observant, Emma. See, Henry could tell after seeing you talking together once."

"Will someone tell me what's going on?" Granny grumbled.

"Nothing! There's _nothing_ going on!" Emma said, twitching when people started leaning on their car horns since they hadn't left the four-way stop yet. She sped through the intersection.

"I think there is," Henry said calmly. Conclusion made, he was now just enjoying watching his mom trying to dig herself (badly) out of the situation.

"Granny, Emma likes a boy," Ruby said proudly.

"Well now, it's about time! Is he devilishly handsome?"

"_No_. I mean, no because there's not anybody, not because I wouldn't—I—" She exhaled loudly. "For the record, to everyone here, I _do not_ have a crush on Killian Jones!"

Ruby was laughing full volume now, hands clapping. This time, Emma pulled over fully to the curb, looked into the backseat. "_What_ is so funny?"

Ruby couldn't catch her breath, but Henry gave Emma a smug Cheshire Cat grin.

"I didn't mention his name, Mom."

* * *

Gwen found Henry in the reference section Monday afternoon.

He held up his hand before she could give any kind of an I-told-you-so brag. "Hey, I'm doing you a favor, so save it."

"I didn't say anything," she said, sugary sweet. Ignoring that, Henry reached into his pocket and handed over a folded up Post-It note.

"I know nothing about this, got it?"

Gwen shoved it into the zippered small pouch on her backpack. "Yeah yeah. Leave it to me."

* * *

Emma stirred the pot of spaghetti slowly, frowning. It was only Wednesday, and the week was already sucking immeasurably. She had hoped to see Mr.—_Killian_ at practice on Tuesday, hoping she could apologize for looking so stunned at the game. But he was a no-show, and when the time was up, Emma noticed Gwen simply make for the parking lot. She'd run to catch up with her.

"Are you alright, kid? You know, you can just hang around the field until your dad arrives."

Gwen had kept walking at her fast pace. "I'm fine. I saw my dad pull in already."

"Ah…that's good. But maybe I should just—"

Gwen had stopped abruptly, turning to Emma. "He's not mad at you, Coach Swan. But sometimes…he just needs to be alone for a little while."

"Oh…ok," Emma'd said, watching Gwen resume her path towards the car, internally deflating. _He hates me. Fucked up again, Swan._

To top it off, her most recent mark had eluded her, resulting in two bloody skinned knees from the failed chase.

She glanced through the kitchen doorway into the living room. Ruby and Henry were in front of the TV, watching some Adventure Time episode. Granny was quietly knitting in the corner. Since Emma ate so much at Granny's greasy spoon diner (not to mention Granny and Ruby had helped her out several times over the years, including her time juggling an infant and job) she made it a point to cook for them at least once a week. Nothing as great as the diner, but they seemed content with the arrangement.

Emma's phone vibrated suddenly on the countertop, and she quickly wiped her hand on a dishrag before picking it up. Unknown number. _Hmm_. Probably not work. Maybe something to do with Henry's school? But why so late?

"Henry, turn that down!" she yelled towards the couch before hitting 'answer'.

"Hello?"

"Ah. The lady Swan."

She would know that rich accent anywhere, and it's completely undiminished over the phone. Much better than the replays she's been doing of it in her head. Still…

"I'm sorry, who is this?" It came out slightly more hostile than she'd planned, but Killian just laughs.

"Forgive me, lass. I'm sure a woman such as yourself has any number of strange Brits calling her home at all hours. Just as a refresher, it's Killian. Jones."

Emma bit her lip against a laugh. She would _not_ give him that satisfaction. "And what's your issue this evening? Furthermore…" the questions start to pop up, "…how'd you get my number?"

"Well, I was sure you'd assume that when you gave Gwen your number to arrange some study time between the children, that I would be the one ultimately calling."

"I gave…?"

He sounds hesitant now. "Er…your number? To Gwen…? For me? I—I mean, for me to call, for them—"

"Killian, I've got a lot going on, but I'm pretty sure I would've remembered that."

"Well…this is quite the quandary. I can't think—"

He suddenly cuts off, though not completely. Emma can hear muffled voices, then what sounds like someone running up carpeted stairs. A high-pitched laugh, then a shriek and a door slamming. She gripped the phone tighter. "Killian?"

He comes back at full volume, sounding slightly out of breath. "Apologies, love. It appears I've discovered a conniving cupid as the cause of this confusion, whom I just gave chase to. She's eluded me for the present, though."

Emma turned, narrowing her eyes at the back of the couch, whose inhabitants had become unnaturally still, faking intense concentration over an infomercial.

"I wouldn't be too hard on her. I'd wager there's more than one involved."

He exhaled in a long rush. "I'm sorry, Swan. Children get ideas, and—and I'm sorry to have bothered you, I'm sure you're in the midst of suppertime…"

He trailed off then, and Emma was sure he was ready to hang up. "Killian, wait!" She cleared her throat. "I'm actually glad you called."

"Aye?"

"Aye. I mean, _yes_. I wanted to apologize for my reaction the other day. To—to your…injury."

"Think nothing of it, Swan."

"But I have, and I feel terrible. It was just surprise, I guess. I truly didn't mean, or want, you to take it as an insult." She paused, lowering her voice. "I mean, I have scars too, and I wouldn't want—"

"Swan, thanks to your…choice of attire last week, I think I've seen enough to know you don't have any hideous marrings in vital—"

His teasing tone kept Emma from biting his head off right there and then, but she still had to set him straight. "No, they're more…internal."

He was silent for a moment. "I'm sorry, Swan. That was presumptuous. And now it would appear I'm the arse." Emma stayed quiet; he seemed to be struggling for the next thing to say.

Finally: "At the risk of giving our little miscreants exactly what they want, I'd like to clear the air, Swan. It'll get a bit tiresome to be unknowingly insulting, then apologizing, to each other at our every meeting. What do you say?"

"Clear the air?"

"Correct. Just a…friendly chat between two adults. Over food. Perhaps dinner?"

"Dinner?" _Sterling conversational skills, Emma._

"Aye. How does your Saturday evening look, Swan? I don't have to give a tour until Sunday afternoon."

"A tour of what?"

"Ah, well, I work for my brother's fishing charter boat company. Help groups of children catch their first tuna, or give the hopelessly inept their best chance at bagging a giant flounder."

"Oh. Okay. I mean, okay. Let's…have some food together. Just tell me where and when, and I'll meet you there."  
"Sounds perfect, love." He rattled off some directions that Emma scribbled onto a piece of scrap paper.

"Well, darling, I'm sure I've taken up enough of your time for one evening. Saturday it is, then?"

"Yeah. Oh, and Killian…this isn't a date." She heard Ruby's squeal from the couch as soon as she said 'date'.

"Whatever you say, love."


	4. Chapter 4

"Well now, lass, does your old Pops clean up well enough?" Killian turned around from his closet mirror, arms held out wide.

He'd chosen a solid black dress shirt, with black pinstriped pants. A burgundy tie was knotted at his throat.

Gwen cocked her head to the side as she stood on Killian's bed, leaning against one of the bedposts. Her nose started to scrunch.

"Ugh, _no_. You need to change."

His thick brows took a nosedive. "And what the bloody he—…_heck_, is wrong with my ensemble?" he said, turning back towards the mirror and smoothing a hand down his front.

"Those colors and patterns together make you look like a vampire."

A laugh unexpectedly snorted out through his nose. The things that came out of that child's mouth. Though in this instance, he mainly blamed all the past seasons of _Project Runway_ Gwen had been devouring through his Hulu account. Ever since she'd discovered that damnable program, she had started to present herself as some kind of mini fashion expert. And since Killian was the one she was around most, he had the pleasure of being the subject of her scrutiny more often than anyone else.

He hummed to himself as he found his tie rack again, and swirled around, presenting it to Gwen on the tip of his index finger.

"Alright then, Ms. Tim Gunn, what do you propose?"

Her hand lingered for a moment on a tie the same icy blue of his eyes, but then she looked up, her jaw set determinedly.

"Lose the tie. Too fancy. And put jeans on."

Hmm. Perhaps she had a point. He didn't want to intimidate Swan by coming off so serious on a first da—_dinner_. He loosened and disposed of the tie, popping open the first shirt button. "Better, darling?"

Gwen gestured towards his neck. "Another one." He opened the next button.

She sighed dramatically. "_Another_ one." Killian frowned, but did it to humor her, his silver chain and pendants that were usually hidden under his shirts starting to peak out

"What are you getting at, princess? I thought you _wanted_ me to go out with Ms. Swan. I do hope the lovely lady won't run screaming for the hills when she sees me approaching her, half-dressed."

Gwen flopped down sideways on the bed, crossing her ankles. "_Trust_ me, Dad. Girls like that kinda stuff."

His eyes narrowed, regarding her. "I don't think I like you knowing that at your age. Or any age, actually."

She shrugged. "I just like listening when people talk."

"Aye, you listen a bit too well." Killian waved his hand towards the door. "Out, my meddlesome young rascal. I need to finish up."

She jumped to the floor. "Are you gonna kiss her?"

"Out!"

* * *

_What the hell am I doing here?_ Emma's grip tightened on the steering wheel as she looked out onto the docks, the sun fading fast.

When she had first given the address a rudimentary plug-in to Google, she had noticed it was near the docks of Boston's Inner Harbor. She had assumed one of the seafood places that were plentiful in the area, and not given it a second thought until her GPS had led her right up to the actual docks. The actual water, not a restaurant.

_What the hell is up this guy's sleeve_, Emma wondered, finally getting out of the car, and taking a few tentative steps towards the pier. She didn't have to go very far before she saw another figure walking towards her up the Harborwalk.

"Swan?"

Emma stopped suddenly, feeling like her legs had turned to cement blocks. It was Killian, all right, looking more gorgeous than anyone should have a legal right to be. Black dress shirt, opened to show an obscene amount of dark chest hair, fitted (not skinny) dark jeans…with some weathered-looking black boots showing from underneath. _Odd_.

He extended a hand to her. "Coming?"

She ignored that, started to match his stride. "I thought we were having dinner, not swimming," she remarked, as he seemed to show no signs of stopping as they headed towards the water.

"Though I have no objection to your wish to see me soaking wet, Swan, we _are_ in fact having supper." Killian strode across the gangplank of a moderately-sized fishing vessel, turning around once he'd boarded. "Problem, love?"

Emma looked down. "I'm overdressed…for a boat."

_And how_, he thought gleefully, openly admiring how the slinky red dress hugged her curves, his eyes travelling down her smooth legs to matching red heels. She tugged her sheer navy scarf, patterned with white sailboats, a little tighter. Frankly, her discomfort was a cross he was willing to bear.

"Now, now, Swan, you're a vision. Very…patriotic."

She glowered at him, though one corner of her mouth had quirked up. "You're making fun of me."

"Never, Swan. Bad form, that." He looked down to where she wobbled in her heels. "You can't ever say I wasn't chivalrous, either." And before Emma had time to protest, he'd bounded back up the gangplank, put one arm around her back, and swooped her feet out from under her with the other, turning back to the boat.

She let out a surprised yelp. "What the hell are you doing?!"

He deposited her onto the boat deck. "Helping, love. I suspect we'd have stood here all night waiting for you to retain your balance, and"—he raised an eyebrow at her—"I'm hungry."

She started to shoot back a smart retort, but it died on her lips when she saw the set-up behind Killian. The deck certainly wasn't roomy, but he'd still managed to set up a small round table, covered in a white cloth. Two thick wax candles (which looked to be the type you could switch on from the inside), glowed on each side of it. There was a covered platter in the center, and two white plates and silverware at either end in front of two chairs. A bottle of what looked like red wine was nestled in a small ice bucket near what Emma assumed was Killian's chair.

He turned, peering at her curiously. "Alright there, Swan?"

"Yes." It came out almost a whisper. "It's just…it's that…I don't know. I guess I'm not used to people…putting in an effort where I'm concerned."

"I'm not sure if I should refuse to believe that, or tell you to get used to it." He pulled out her chair.

"Used to it?" Emma smirked up at him as he pushed her in. "Quite sure of yourself, aren't you?"

He returned the expression. "I'm quite sure of my cooking, at least." He pulled the cover off the platter, and Emma peered at it, looking up quizzically. "Steak? On a fishing boat?"

Killian laughed. "You tend to crave something different when you're around the scent of fish almost every day, love."

She grinned. "Fair enough."

* * *

She'd lost her shoes.

No, wait. There they were, still on deck thank god, a few feet away where she must have kicked them at some point. Emma also noticed that their chairs seemed to have gravitated towards each other, though she couldn't recall if Killian or she had been the one to instigate it. Damn that Jones. Whatever kind of wine he'd brought was _amazing_.

She peered down at her glass. "What…what _is_ this? It's red, but it's fizzy, but it—" *****_ hiccup * _"—can't be rosé—"

"Actually, it's Rouge. My brother visited Korbel last month, and brought back a few choice selections unavailable in stores." He settled back in his seat, trying not to show his amusement at her tipsy state.

"So…you two are close, huh?" Emma couldn't be bothered to feel embarrassed at delving into Killian's background on a first da—_dinner_. Maybe another time, but the Rouge was making her bold.

"Aye. Since…well, forever, really. Our mum died when we were both young, and our father—if you could call him that—took off when I was around fifteen. Liam, luckily, was in the Royal Navy at the time, signed on as my guardian, and sent home enough earnings for me to live in a lodging on my own. In his name, of course, but otherwise…I was essentially on my own when he was out to sea."

Emma just stared. Who would've thought? _Doesn't mean you have to respond in kind, though, Swan. Remember that. _

"He…he sounds wonderful."

"Indeed. Been quite the rock for me my whole life. What about you, Swan? Brothers, sisters?"

And there it was. Were her thoughts hovering in some cartoon bubble over her head? The man went straight to the root.

"N-no. Neither. No…no parents, either. I was in the foster system my whole childhood. Abandoned."

Killian stayed quiet for several seconds after that reveal, and Emma felt like giving herself a good smack right in the forehead.

"Sorry," she grumbled, "Too much all at once, I know."

"No, no, love, it's not that. It's just that you seem so…well-adjusted."

Emma gave a short laugh at that. "I'd say I'm anything but. Though I do try to put on a good front for Henry's sake."

"The things we do for our children, eh?"

"I'll say. Though I may have told him his father was some rat fink who left me while I was pregnant with him." _Fuck_. This time, she literally clapped her hand over her mouth. "Not in those words," she said through her clenched hand.

Killian pried her hand away. "Children are amazingly resilient, Swan, and he seems a happy lad from what I've seen."

"He is. At least, I think he is." She glanced down to where Killian had yet to release her hand. "And Gwen utterly adores you." She grinned, remembering a past conversation. "She's very protective of you."

"Aye, far too protective. Sometimes I think she believes she's more my mother than my daughter."

She scooted a little closer, trying to ignore the brush of her knee against his. "It's sweet. Killian?" Emma took a deep breath. _Now or never, Swan. Might as well ask while you're on a roll._ She gently slid her hand out of his grasp, and reached for the damaged left one. "Can you tell me about this?"

She could feel the tension under her grip, saw him look down at her thumb unconsciously rubbing circles over the scarred back. After a few moments more, she started to pull back. "I'm sorry, that was completely out of line—"

His grip tightened over her retreating hand, actually interlaced them. Emma froze, stunned.

"You told me, Swan. It's only fair I tell you. In fact," he looked up, "you probably would understand more than most."

He settled their linked hands on his thigh. "I was married once, as you may have guessed. Back in England. I was completely infatuated with her. Maybe she was with me, at one point. We were young, reckless, travelling all over Europe together. Once she got pregnant, well…I was ready to give it all up. Figured we would've eventually. Thought I had it all then, the perfect family I'd never had. But," he scratched at some imaginary mark on the tablecloth, "that's when it became obvious that she'd never wanted the same. She didn't want to give up our lifestyle. To her credit, she went along with it for awhile." He looked back up at Emma. "And I'm no saint, Swan. She was unhappy, but I didn't want to see it. I was just too mad about her, and then mad about the baby."

Killian leaned back, looking across the water. "She lasted until Gwen was two."

Emma feared the worst, but she _had_ to know. "Lasted?"

"Sorry, love. She ran off. With a magician."

Unexpectedly, a fit of giggles erupted up Emma's throat, and continued out her mouth. "Oh my god, I'm sorry!" she cried, horrified.

But Killian just looked a bit perplexed. "Good to hear you laugh, lass, but—"

"No, sorry, but—a magician? Really?"

She was surprised when Killian snorted at that. "It _is_ funny now. Six years ago it wasn't. But yes," he continued, "a magician. Apparently very big in…whatever circuits magicians travel in."

Emma truly couldn't help it when another laugh at that escaped her, and she was relieved when Killian joined in.

"Aye, love, quite ridiculous when it's all laid out."

Forcing herself back under control, Emma lifted their joined hands. "But where does this come in?"

"Ah, that. Well, I wasn't particularly pleased when I got home and found a note saying my wife had taken off with Gold the Great, and had no plans to return. As you can imagine. I went out and punched in her car's driver side window."

"That…did all _this_?"

Killian scratched behind his ear in that bashful way she was beginning to notice. "I, ah, didn't stop there. Try all the windows. Including the back and windshield."

Emma gasped. "Holy shit."

"Aye. Quite lucky I didn't cause permanent nerve damage. When I saw the state I was in at the hospital, and the trouble I had getting someone to look after Gwen, well…that sobered me right up. I had another person to take care of for the first time in my life. Once they stitched me up and released me, I went right home and called Liam up. He'd just moved to the States a year or so before, and was starting up his fishing tour business. And the rest, as they say, is history, darling."

"Wow, that's…that's quite the story." Emma's gaze shifted to somewhere over his shoulder. The subject matter had shaken the champagne buzz right out of her, and she was beginning to feel some embarrassment at all she'd revealed, as well as knowing such intimate details about this handsome near-stranger. She staggered to her feet.

"I—I really ought to get home soon, Killian. I mean now. I should leave now. It's late," she babbled.

She had taken a few steps towards her discarded shoes, arm stretched full length, but still Killian hadn't let go of her hand.

"I didn't mean to frighten you off with all that, love. And you _did_ ask, after all." He turned, facing her fully, grasped her hand in both of his, and began to gently tug her back towards him.

She didn't know why she allowed it. It had to be some remnant of the wine, Emma told herself.

Once she stood fully between his knees, he looked up, grinning. "Come here, love."

She remained standing, but still let him hold her hands. "I can't. I can't do this, Killian."

"Do what, exactly?"

"_This_. Get involved again. I've got a good life right now, a steady, dependable life. I don't need it. I don't even think I can remember _how_ to do it anymore."

"It?" he said lasciviously, cocking one brow, his tongue running over his bottom lip.

Emma rolled her eyes. "A relationship, Killian. Not…not _that_. I'm perfectly fine in that arena, and….ugh, okay, you know what? I'm just going to stop talking now."

Killian laughed. "You're particularly charming when you've got a bit of the poison in you."

"I am _not_—"

He suddenly gave a sharp jerk, pulling Emma right onto his knee.

She pushed at his chest. "What is _wrong_ with you?!"

He linked his hands behind her back. "Emma, love, I'm not asking for commitment, weekend trips to a country cabin, family barbecues…yet," he muttered on the last part. When she opened her mouth, he placed one finger over her lips. "I simply want to get to know you, Emma Swan. What I _do_ know is, you're intriguing and hilarious, with more than a touch of prickliness. And I want to know more."

"But—"

"And I think you want to get to know me, too. You may not say it in words, but I can see it. You're something of an open book, love."

"Am I?" Emma asked, wanting to kick herself over how breathless she sounded.

"Quite. At least, to me you are."

Emma looked down. God, those eyes of his were intense. There really was no safe ground around Killian Jones, though; she found herself staring right at that dark, silky patch of hair peeking through his shirt. Tentatively, she reached over and pulled the glint of silver she saw glittering, out. A cross (of course, Catholic) and what looked like a Celtic knot. She ran the tip of her finger over the outside curve of the knot, warm from his chest. She could feel his shallow breathing as he stared at her exploring his pendants, trying to think of what to say.

"Killian, I'm not _good_ at this kind of thing. I'll only fuck things up, and you won't be able to get away fast enough."

He tilted her gaze back to his, scarred index finger and thumb guiding her chin. "I think after all we talked about tonight, it's been established we've _both_ been left before, love. C'mon. Let's take a chance. I'm game. And let me tell you something, I haven't been game for anyone in, well, in a long, bloody long time."

Emma sighed. He was persistent, and he wasn't going to let her off easily. In some uncanny way, he could tell she really didn't want to escape, easily or otherwise. A small smile touched the corner of her mouth, and she slowly ran her fingers through that head of thick black hair, staring right into those too-blue eyes.

"Let's just…just take things slow, alright?"

"I couldn't agree more," he murmured, as Emma lowered her mouth to fuse with his.

* * *

Killian opened the front door quietly, slipping off towards the right into the den. Liam was half-asleep, watching one of the late-night comedian talk hosts do their thing. He roused himself with a grunt when Killian gave him a flick upside the head.

"How was the devious little mastermind this fine evening?"

Liam shoved his hand away. "Does your lady friend know what a prat you are?" But he smiled. "She was a complete dream. Watched some cartoons, then fell asleep on the couch in the living room. Haven't had the heart to wake her."

"A dream!" Killian snickered at that. "Well, brother, you've done me a great favor."

Liam raised an eyebrow. "Did I now? Did my little brother get lucky 'this fine evening'?"

"Younger," Killian said automatically, shoving Liam towards the door. "And a gentleman never tells. Bad form."

His brother rolled his eyes as he stepped onto the porch. "You and your good form."

"Many thanks, though," Killian said genuinely, clapping Liam on the shoulder. "I'll see you for the tour tomorrow."

Liam made a show of glancing at his watch. "You mean later today?"

"Get out of here."

Killian walked quietly towards the living room. Hopefully he could heft Gwen upstairs without waking her; she _was_ an unnaturally heavy sleeper. He had only gotten a pace or two into the room when the bundle on the couch sat up startlingly fast, like some cursed jack-in-the-box.

"_You're_ home late!"

Killian stumbled back, rapping the back of his skull sharply on the doorjamb. "Bloody buggering fuck!" he bellowed, feeling for the lightswitch.

Gwen beamed at him. "You swore!" she announced triumphantly.

"Aye, and you're lucky I don't do more," he said, without any real heat behind it. "Come here, you troublemaker."

He scooped her up and flung her over his shoulder, starting the march up the stairs to her room.

"Hey. Hey!" Gwen smacked his lower back with her palms. "What happened? Tell me!"

"It was a perfectly pleasant evening of dinner and conversation."

"That's _boring_! That can't be _everything_."

"When you're my age, you'll find you want to keep certain details between the parties involved."

Gwen groaned. "What does _that_ mean?"

"Never you mind," said Killian, depositing her onto her bed with a squeal. "Get some sleep finally, and you can come fishing on the boat tomorrow."

She rolled over on her stomach, squinting at him.

"Fine. Don't tell me." She gave him a sly little smile. "I've got it _all_ figured out."

"Have you now," Killian said, distracted, turning to go.

"Yup. Here, Dad," she said leaning off her bed, holding a tissue she'd yanked from the box on her nightstand.

He took it, but gave her a quizzical look. "What's this for, princess?"

"You've got lipstick on your collar."

* * *

**A/N: I actually own Emma's scarf described on the date :) And I visited Korbel Champagne Cellars last month, and I DO recommend the Rouge! Only the epilogue after this now.**


	5. Chapter 5-Epilogue

**3 Weeks Later**

The weather was unnaturally warm for this late in the fall, but it served the St. Pius girls' field hockey team perfectly for their mid-season barbecue. A kind of morale-booster, as Emma had phrased it, though honestly, it was more of a show on her part of goodwill towards the other families she'd been getting to know better. And would continue getting to know. Such a small community as St. Pius didn't lend itself well to her trademarked one-woman wolfpack _modus operandi_, and her coaching position was a perfect jump-off to send the old persona packing. Right now, it was still at the 'noble effort' level, but Emma definitely thought things were improving.

The players were running around, trying to be helpful, while the parents and relatives did the actual work. Except for Ruby, of course. She was sharing a large flannel blanket, and fruit salad, with the school's new health teacher, Victor Whale. A smarmy looking sort, but Emma was reserving judgment until she got to know him better. A mouthwatering aroma of hot dogs and burgers rose into the air from their staked spot in Franklin Park, and the upbeat sounds of Queen drifted out from the old radio that had been tuned in to WZLX, intermingling with little-girl shrieks.

Emma had Henry assisting her as the chief grillmaster, when she felt him nudge her in the side.

"Your boyfriend's here."

"Henry, what did I tell you about that? Killian's just…someone I get along with, and we hang out sometimes. No labels."

He gave a truly award-worthy eyeroll. "Okay, Mom. A man that you know, who's also a friend, that you kiss and hold hands with, is here." He raised an eyebrow. "You know, 'boyfriend' is way easier to say."

"Alright, Grand Master Sass, you can take a break from grilling duties. Don't wander too far."

"Thanks!" He took off in the direction of the pond.

"Hey, beautiful," a deep voice purred in her ear.

She whirled around. "Hey yourself," she said starting to lean towards him, when a small throat clearing startled them both. They looked down.

"Don't mind me," Gwen grinned broadly up at them. "Pretend I'm not even here."

"We'll do better than pretend," Killian shot back, giving her a prod on the shoulder. "Go play with your friends. Or eat. Just—give us some grown-up talk time."

"You don't have to water things down for me, Dad, I can take it. Just tell me to leave because you want to snog your girlf—"

"Off you go!" he said, turning her around. "March!"

She obliged, shaking her head at them as she went.

"You know," Emma said, pointing the spatula at Killian, "I could tell she was exceptionally bright, but I hadn't noticed just what a lip she's got on her. It's okay," she continued when he looked about to say something. "Henry's got the same…wit." She moved to turn back to food duties. "I'm sure you'll pick up on that soon enough."

"Aye?" he said, lips brushing her ear as he turned her back towards him by her hips. "Quite sure of us spending more time together, are you?"

She smirked, recognizing her own words coming back at her. "Actually, yes," she said, linking her fingers loosely through his belt loops. "I'm quite confident on that front lately."

It felt strange. Strange but good, these past few weeks. Upon Emma's insistence that she didn't know how to do relationships, Killian had decided he'd be the one to show her what she'd been missing all these years, both the silly and the serious.

* * *

She hadn't been lying. Swan certainly was a challenge, but Killian thought he was proving an equal match to her. The day after their first date had been a workday for him, and once he was off the boat, the sky had already gone from fiery pink to a deep purple. And by the time he'd arrived home and ordered some dinner for himself and Gwen, he decided not to call. He didn't think their…whatever it was at this stage was at the point of receiving late phone calls on school nights.

He'd called the next day. Several times, in fact. And the day after that. No answer, no return call.

One day wasn't cause to wonder, but two days of radio silence? She was avoiding him, no doubt in his mind. Well, she could only run for so long, because practice was the next day, and he planned to be a _very_ attentive parent spectator.

Emma had at least had the decency to look embarrassed when she spotted him loping over from the parking lot. After she'd organized the girls into some drill or other (he was hopeless at naming all those bloody maneuvers, having been focused on the coach primarily since the first practice), she came over.

"Hey."

"Been busy, Swan?"

She fidgeted. "I'm…sorry, Killian. I just, I was drunk, and I pushed too fast—"

He took her by the elbow, discreetly, on the arm not facing the few biddies that had come to roost for the afternoon. "You weren't that inebriated. What's bothering you? Is it because you kissed me?"

A pretty flush stole over her cheeks. "Maybe. It's just…new."

"Emma." He guided them both over to the bench in front of the players practicing, pulled her down next to him. "I told you I wouldn't push anything before you were ready. And I meant it. Think I was pulling your leg?"

"_No_. No, it's me…"

Killian leaned back. "Am I actually getting the 'it's not you, it's me' sod-off speech?"

"No!" For a minute, she seemed to forget where they were as she reached out and gripped his damaged hand tightly. He noticed a few glances their way, but didn't move a muscle, as though some rare tropical bird had just decided to alight upon his head.

"Killian," she said, lowering her voice. "I don't want you going anywhere."

He felt a leap in his chest, the tension roll out of his shoulders. "Truly?"

"Yeah. I was just kind of surprised with myself. The way I felt…after the date."

_Well, at least she was calling it a date, that must be progress_, he thought before she continued.

"I felt like a…like a goddamned teenager. I wanted to call you the next day, but then I remembered you were working, and isn't the guy supposed to call first? But then you _did_ call, and I was nervous I'd say something stupid."

"Stupid? Such as?"

"Like…like ask you to see a movie, or get coffee, or…I don't know. Mostly, I…I just wanted to see you and… kiss you again." She looked down, pulling at a hangnail.

Killian bit his lip. He would've laughed at the whole comedy of errors, if Swan hadn't looked so mortified. He took his chances, and slid his hand back into hers.

"Swan," he said gently, an edge of amusement in his tone. "That's what people do when they want to go on another date. When they like someone."

"Well, I don't know!" she burst out, stopping herself when she noticed some of the girls look over. "I told you I was bad at this relationship nonsense."

"Not bad," he said, leaning closer, bringing them shoulder-to-shoulder. "Just out of practice. But," he grinned down at her, "I have a feeling it's going to be fun re-learning the basics with you, eh?"

"The basics?"

He settled a hand lightly against her lower back, out of view of prying eyes. "Aye. Not ready for the advanced league yet, Swan. But I'm game when you are."

* * *

And so he had. At least what he deemed to be "basics". Truthfully, Killian didn't feel much more clued in to the world of dating than Emma. He felt woefully out of practice too, but he didn't want her to know that. She was looking to him for some sort of guidance, after all. During the weekdays, they'd gone for frozen yogurt, and yes, a movie, but for the weekend, he was already forming a bigger plan.

"Ever actually gone fishing, Swan?" he asked in one of their evening phone conversations.

"Foster home living usually isn't concerned with rounding out your extracurricular activities."

"Well…I want to change that. Fishing, Swan. Saturday morning. Come to the same dock you did for our dinner date."

"Do I need to bring anything?"

"Warm clothes and the realization that you'll probably smell like a tuna by day's end."

She giggled. "Sexy."

"You don't know what that word on your lips does to me, woman."

"Knock it off, loverboy."

It had been a blast. Well, Killian had had a blast seeing that Emma was having one. He'd accosted Liam for this mission to run the boat while Killian was the one helping with the fishing part of the trip. She actually hadn't done bad (though she'd had his help), catching a modest-sized haddock, and crowed about it the remainder of the day. After lunchtime, a restlessness had settled over them, and after one too many Sam Adams Oktoberfests, they were racing around the boat as though they were no older than their children. Killian had insisted that there was no better place to act out the famous _Titanic_ scene, and since she needed more romance in her life….Emma had, of course, adamantly refused. This led to a boat-wide chase, Killian laughing, Emma shrieking and evading him, and Liam giving Killian the throat-gagging motion every time he made a lap past him.

Once the beginnings of sunset started to show on the horizon, Liam guided them into port. When Emma went to thank him for his help for the day, he stopped her with a hand on her arm.

"Tis I who should be thanking _you_, lass."

She stared at him. "Why?"

He angled his head towards Killian, who was packing up their catches for the day. "Any lady who can make my little brother titter like a sodding schoolboy all day deserves my respect." He leaned in, winked in a manner exactly like Killian's. "And my sympathy."

She smiled.

* * *

**Present**

"Emma, I…actually wanted to ask you something. A favor, really." He toyed with one of his pendants.

"So serious, Jones. Problem?"

"No, no problem exactly. Just maybe…pushing the boundaries of taking things slow. In your opinion."

She moved her hands up, held onto his biceps. "Well, out with it."

He looked down, tracing some pattern into the jeans on her hip. "Thanksgiving is next week, you know."

"I'm well aware."

"I've never been one for celebrating the American holidays, or anything, but I thought it might be a good opportunity to, you know…have the whole gang, so to speak…"

"Killian, are you asking my tiny family to get together with your tiny family to gorge on turkey for the day?"

He avoided her eyes. "The thought had crossed my mind."

She laughed, and he looked up, surprised. "Usually we just get together with Ruby and Granny for something small. An actual Thanksgiving-sized…Thanksgiving could be nice. And it's not like our two hoodlums don't know what's going on." She frowned for a moment. "But our apartment is pretty small. I mean, our table's barely handled four in the past. Can't imagine how seven would work."

"You know, love, I have a house. And a dining room complete with a dining table."

"Are you inviting us over, Killian Jones?"

"Perhaps. If you're good."

She slid her hands over his shoulders, linked them around his neck. "I accept. As long as Ruby and Granny can come."

He made a face in Ruby and Victor's direction. "Must I invite that ponce as well?"

She leaned forward to nip his lip. "Be nice."

* * *

"Found you!"

Henry's head jerked up from the soccer game he was playing on his phone, turning around and giving Gwen the stink eye.

"Do you have to do that every time?"

She ignored that, came and plopped herself next to him on the bench.

"So, how about you help me with my math problems next week at Thanksgiving?"

His eyes narrowed at her. "What're you talking about?"

"My dad thinks he's sneaky, but I'm pretty sure he's inviting you guys over for Thanksgiving dinner next week."

He shrugged. "If that's the case, sorry kid. I'm a tutor. Everyone knows teachers _and_ tutors don't work holidays."

She looked a bit miffed at first, but then settled herself more comfortably, let her legs swing above the grass.

"S'alright. You guys'll be coming over more soon anyways."

Henry turned, raised an eyebrow at her. "And how do _you_ know all this? Are you a psychic, or what, ki—Gwen? No offense, but how do you know how long this'll last?"

Gwen looked over the back of the bench. Emma and Killian were still talking, too far away for her to hear. Not that she needed to. Their hands were on each other's waists, their noses bumping, foreheads touching. Smiling.

She turned back. "Oh, I have a feeling they're gonna be awhile."

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for all of you who came along on my 1st CS FF adventure! I really appreciate the support.**


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